A red river rises to the East
And the conch call echoes through the mountains
The men sharpen their axes and tighten their bows
The women salt meat and wrap flour cakes
In the dawn, the plateau is empty of tents
In the sky, a lone falcon reels
Shrieking mournfully over the grass

Author: redgladiola

Creative writer happily predisposed to flights of fancy. You can find my poetry and short prose at https://redgladiola.wordpress.com

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